ByJames Schuylerith a wide wooden rake (whose teeth are pegsor rather, dowels). Next doorboys play soccer: “You got to startover!” sort of. A round attic window in a radiant gray house waits like a kettledrum.“You got to start . . .” The Brahmsian daylapses from waltz to march. The grass,

rough-cropped as Bruno Walter’s hair,is stretched, strewn and humped beneath a sycamorewide and high as an idea of heavenin which Brahms turns his face like a bearded thumband says, “There is something I must tell you!”to Bruno Walter. “In the first movement of my Second, think of it as a familyplanning where to go next summerin terms of other summers. A material ecstasy, subdued, recollective.” Bruno Walterin a funny jacket with a turned-up collarsays, “Let me sing it for you.” He waves his hands and through the vocalese-shaped spacesof naked elms he draws a copper beechignited with a few late leaves. He bluely glazesa rhododendron “a sea of leaves” against gold grass.There is a snapping from the brightworkof parked and rolling cars.There almost has to be a heaven! so there could bea place for Bruno Walterwho never needed the cry of a baton.Immortality—in a small, dusty, rather gritty, somewhat scratchyMagnavox from which a fortedrops like a used Brillo Pad?Frayed. But it’s hard to think of the sky as a thick glass floorwith thick-soled Viennese boots tromping about on it.It’s a whole lot harder thinking of Brahms

“is something more than beer and skittles!”“And the something moreis a whole lot better than beer and skittles,”says Bruno Walter,darkly, under the sod. I don’t suppose it seems so darkto a root. Who are these men in evening coats?What are these thumps?Where is Brahms?And Bruno Walter?Ensconced in resonant plump easy chairscovered with scuffed brown leatherin a pungent autumn that blends leaf smoke(sycamore, tobacco, other), their nobility wound in a finalelike this calico cat asleep, curled up in a breadbasket,on a sideboard where the sun falls.Under the French horns of a November afternoona man in blue is raking leaveswith a wide wooden rake (whose teeth are pegsor rather, dowels). Next doorboys play soccer: “You got to startover!” sort of. A round attic window in a radiant gray house waits like a kettledrum.“You got to start . . .” The Brahmsian daylapses from waltz to march. The grass, rough-cropped as Bruno Walter’s hair,is stretched, strewn and humped beneath a sycamorewide and high as an idea of heavenin which Brahms turns his face like a bearded thumband says, “There is something I must tell you!”to Bruno Walter. “In the first movement of my Second, think of it as a familyplanning where to go next summerin terms of other summers. A material ecstasy, subdued, recollective.” Bruno Walterin a funny jacket with a turned-up collarsays, “Let me sing it for you.” He waves his hands and through the vocalese-shaped spacesof naked elms he draws a copper beechignited with a few late leaves. He bluely glazesa rhododendron “a sea of leaves” against gold grass.There is a snapping from the brightworkof parked and rolling cars.There almost has to be a heaven! so there could bea place for Bruno Walterwho never needed the cry of a baton.Immortality—in a small, dusty, rather gritty, somewhat scratchyMagnavox from which a fortedrops like a used Brillo Pad?Frayed. But it’s hard to think of the sky as a thick glass floorwith thick-soled Viennese boots tromping about on it.It’s a whole lot harder thinking of Brahms

"Words & Music" is a one-hour long segment of poetry and music. Since December of 2011, I have recited hundreds of poems, each followed by a piece of music which (I feel) reflects the soul and energy of the poem. Of course, this is all subjective. However, the purpose of "Words & Music" is to explore and enjoy the profound link between...words and music.

Many of the poems recited on the air have been those of the masters: Shakespeare, Auden, Shelley, Keats, Whitman, and other renowned poetic voices. Other poems have been submitted by contemporary poets who are living, breathing, and creating here and now. This blog will publish ALL of the poetry heard on the air, along with information about the poets and the music heard on the program.